Cruel Intentions
by Flywoman Returns
Summary: Her HD symptoms worsening, Thirteen accidentally runs into Cameron in Cambridge… or does she? Tipping the Velvet meets Dangerous Liaisons, set in S7. Not a sequel to "Coin Toss" or "Evasive Action," but similar in characterization and intent.


**Disclaimer:** I am definitely not David Shore, Sarah Waters, or Choderlos de Laclos.

**Thanks:** To yarroway and jezziejay for agreeing to beta this strange beast. Any remaining absurdities are my own.

* * *

1369 is especially busy tonight. She comes here often; the coffee house is just a few short blocks from her apartment, and the caramel apple cider is amazing. It's always packed with people, but most, like her, keep their eyes glued to their laptops, and the owners know to keep the music mellow, a soothing backdrop to the stressed-out studying. She has a series of emails to send before she can go to bed, and plenty of prep before Grand Rounds in the morning, so once she has her cup in hand, it's a while before she even glances up.

There's a stranger pretending not to stare at her from a couple of tables over. Shiny brown hair a soft wing over feline green eyes, but cut close to the nape of the neck; olive skin, sharp cheekbones, no make-up. By the time she realizes that the man's shirt conceals a feminine figure, he – she – has met her gaze, and the lips are parting in a suddenly familiar, disbelieving smile.

"Oh my god. _Cameron?_"

* * *

She looked warier and less pleased to see me than I could have wished, but it was about what I'd expected. I rose relatively smoothly but then stumbled just a little, catching myself on the edge of my table, before heading over to join her.

"I thought it might be you! I almost didn't recognize you with the," I gestured towards my own head, "you know, the hair."

Cameron touched her dark auburn tresses self-consciously and frowned. "You're a fine one to talk! I thought for a minute there that you were a man!"

"An insanely good-looking one, I hope," I grinned, and turned a chair around so that I could straddle it, folding my forearms over the back. "So how are ya?"

"What? Fine. Busy, I- Hadley, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, this and that," I shrugged. "I'm taking some time off, actually."

"I thought that you preferred more _exotic_ destinations." Man, Cameron really had a stick up her ass, just as I remembered her.

"House has had us working so hard lately that right now anything outside a ten mile radius of PPTH qualifies as exotic."

Cameron cocked her head to the side, a skeptical, inquisitive bird ripe to fall into my claws. "Yeah. So what really brings you to Boston?"

I leaned forward and lowered my voice. "Wilson got me pregnant. I was waiting until I could get a CVS, and when the HD test came back positive, I… needed to get away for a while."

Surprise, sympathy and disapproval warred for supremacy in Cameron's face. "Hadley… that's terrible, I'm so sorry…"

I touched her arm. "Kidding! God, I don't know what came over me, that was an awful thing to say. I mean, can you imagine, _Wilson?_" I rolled my eyes.

"You might be surprised," Cameron said, frowning. "And I don't know why I'd believe anything you said. You haven't changed at all, have you?"

"Oh, lighten up! That was way too outrageous to be true. Besides, older men? Not really my department."

Cameron's lips tightened. "Fine. But I don't think that particular tale was entirely an accident. You are here for medical reasons, aren't you?" She looked pointedly at my hands, which I'd clasped to still the shaking.

"That's not really any of your business."

She eyed me shrewdly. "There's a Phase II clinical trial starting up at Mass Gen."

I stared sullenly back at her for a few seconds, then sighed and shrugged in grudging assent.

"It's a caspase inhibitor, right?" Cameron asked. I nodded with a show of reluctance. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

"It's not a big deal," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I asked House for some time off and… here I am."

"How long will you be here for the trial?"

I looked everywhere but at her. "Twelve weeks. I'll leave sooner if there are any adverse effects. You know the drill."

"Where are you staying?"

"Oh," I said vaguely, "here and there." I could see the compassion welling in Cameron's eyes at the thought that I was too proud to admit to being sick, alone, and short on cash in the big city.

"Tonight," she said firmly, "you're staying with me."

* * *

Cameron had a two bedroom on Fainwood Circle, a few blocks off the main drag. She asked me to take off my shoes when I entered, and it was old-fashioned and lovely, hardwood floors and arched openings between airy rooms. The wall facing the door was lined with bookcases; one was mainly filled with medical volumes and older science and math textbooks, most likely from her college days, while the other held tidy alphabetized rows of trade paperbacks, E. M. Forster and Henry James, Margaret Atwood and Sarah Waters.

"Very nice," I told her. "All you need now is a cat."

"I thought about getting one," she confessed, "but I really like dogs too, and since I haven't been able to make up my mind, I'm petless for the time being."

It was too perfect. I opened my mouth, then shut it again. No need to antagonize her when I'd just gotten here. But then Cameron grinned, shaking her head. "_Try_ not to read too much into that statement."

She showed me into the guest room, where I dumped my duffel bag and fingered the thick comforter appreciatively. While I was in the bathroom, a pile of folded, fluffy towels appeared on the bed as if by magic.

"Would you like to use the phone?" Cameron asked when I emerged from a luxuriously hot shower.

"No, thanks, I'm fine."

"Need to tell anyone you're here?"

"Nope."

She gave me a hard look. "Does House actually know you're in Boston?"

"Of course," I said truthfully. "But listen… I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything to anyone else about it."

She regarded me steadily for a moment with unreadable eyes, then nodded. "Okay."

* * *

In the morning, Cameron was up first, almost finished scrambling cage-free eggs and slicing fruit by the time I was decent. I thanked her for everything and said that I'd be gone before she got back from work. She nodded neutrally and commented that she would leave a copy of her house key just in case I changed my mind.

When she got back that night to find me sprawled on her sofa, neither of us suggested that this was likely to be anything but a short-term arrangement. Every morning I hinted that she probably wouldn't see me again; every evening I was there to greet her, put away her groceries, ask how her day had gone.

Cameron noticed things. My favorite foods, my preferred place at the table, the songs that got me swaying in my seat. And I knew that she'd noticed because she casually incorporated her newfound knowledge into our daily dealings, handing me my coffee just the way I liked it, down to the ideal temperature and the brand of cream.

At first I tied myself into knots trying to figure it out. What was she trying to gain, here? What exactly was her angle? But eventually I realized that there wasn't one. Cameron was just trying to be nice.

I wondered how she could possibly have survived for so long in House's department.

More importantly, it struck me that she was being surprisingly attentive to an unexpected long-term guest. Just exactly who was wooing whom, here? How could I possibly win her over if she never gave me the opportunity?

But within a week, something that should have been obvious occurred to me. Cameron might not recognize it yet, but she was definitely a cat person. Any success at seduction would spring from neglect, not eagerness to please on my part. How else to explain Eric's occasional snide allusions to her longstanding crush on House?

* * *

We soon settled into something resembling a routine, riding the red line across the river together every morning, and reconvening late or later for dinner every night, depending on Cameron's schedule. She had an entire bookcase full of cookbooks, mostly of the big, glossy coffee table variety, that looked like they'd barely been touched, along with a few older, dog-eared volumes that probably saw her through residency at least. Now she was hardly ever home early enough to cook.

I didn't have enough to do anyway, and it couldn't hurt to make myself seem indispensable, so it only seemed natural for me to have a hot meal on the table when she arrived. How Eric would snicker if he could see me, my fingers redolent with rosemary, my face shiny with olive oil after a careless swipe, when I had rarely made so much as a sandwich when we were dating. And there was always fresh bread and a good bottle of red wine.

One night she came home especially late, looking drained, dark shadows under her eyes, and she didn't want to talk about it, but after we ate I sat down on the couch, and when she slumped beside me, I placed a throw pillow at my feet and beckoned to her. "Foreman always said I gave great massages," I said with a wistful smile.

She hesitated, then gracefully lowered herself, leaning back between my legs. My hands weren't as steady as they had been, but I swept her hair out of the way, baring the back of her neck, and managed to knead most of the knots out of her trapezius before she fell asleep against my knees.

When she stirred again, she looked up at me, her face luminous in the low light. Her eyes eager, her mouth softened into a half-smile. I brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and let my fingers linger against her neck, feeling her pulse quicken. Then I eased my legs aside and stood; left her sitting, silent, on the floor.

"I should let you get to bed," I told her, consideration incarnate, and retreated to my room. The dissatisfaction radiating from her rigid figure told me that my patience had paid off. I was _this_ close to winning her over.

* * *

"You know what we should do tonight?"

Cameron looked up inquiringly from the sink, where she was elbows-deep in steaming, sudsy water.

"Let's go dancing."

Cameron burst into laughter; without the worry lines, she looked ten years younger. "_Dancing?_" She stopped, staring at my face. "Oh God, you're serious."

"Saturday Night Salsa in Central Square. Right off the red line, and look," I tapped my forefinger triumphantly on the creased flier, "there's a full bar."

"_Dancing?"_ Cameron repeated in mock horror. "Didn't Chase ever tell you how difficult it was for us to learn that waltz for the wedding?"

"I'm a much better partner than Chase," I said smugly, then froze, suddenly afraid that I'd overplayed my hand.

But Cameron only smiled. "I assume that you know how to lead."

"Absolutely," I said, and made a little shooing motion with my hands. "Now go find something suitably sultry. And _no vests_." She rolled her eyes at me and disappeared into the bedroom.

When she emerged again, I sucked in my breath at the sight, then gave a slow, deliberate whistle. "Girlfriend, you are going to knock 'em dead."

She shrugged, self-consciously tugging the snug burgundy top down over the thin strip of bare midriff before her stretchy skintight black skirt began. "As long as I don't physically knock anyone dead. Or even just unconscious."

"I don't think that you have to worry about being the klutzy one tonight," I said ruefully, holding out a hand for her to pull me up off the chair. I allowed the momentum to carry me into her arms and leaned into her for a few seconds, steadying myself.

"You're sure," Cameron began, her pupils slightly dilated.

"Yes! Don't worry." I disengaged myself deftly and gave her a wink. "It's going to be great."

* * *

It was fabulous, 5400 square feet of flashing wrists and swaying hips, and mixed drinks to be had for only five bucks at the bar, and I was in my element. I'd put on a tailored white shirt, tight black pants, and suede-soled shoes, and cocked a gray tweed sport snap cap over my newly re-shorn hair. Heads turned surreptitiously in our direction as we made our way to the coat check, and occasionally I caught someone's eye and smiled slyly, knowing the question that no one was impolite enough to ask aloud.

As soon as we'd hung up our coats, I grabbed Cameron by the hand and dragged her to a relatively quiet corner of the dance floor so I could demonstrate the basics by her side, counting out loud along with the beat. Cameron frowned in concentration at first, but it wasn't too long before she relaxed and put some swish into it, and once I saw that her legs were more or less under control, I moved around to face her, following as she shifted back, nodding encouragingly as she stepped forward. When she looked comfortable with that, I started pivoting into a turn with a provocative shrug, smiling at her over my shoulder as I swirled away.

"Show me," she said, delighted, and I complied, and only when she'd mastered it did I inform her that it was called the chase.

"How fitting." Her step faltered for just a second before she lifted her chin and picked up the beat again, a wry half-smile on her face. A few seconds later, though, the songs switched. I perked up, recognizing Willie Rosario's _Es que no sabes querer_, and reached out to grab Cameron by the hand so that she stumbled to a halt.

"Don't tell me we've exhausted your repertoire," she smirked, brushing sticky auburn strands away from her shining face.

I planted her hand on my upper arm and reached for her waist. "Not even close."

* * *

Cameron really was a natural, and maybe House hadn't been kidding after all when he singled me out as the real man among his team members, because she followed my lead as faithfully as I could have desired, reacting with startling sensitivity to the pressure of my fingers, the twist of my hips. It wasn't long before we had a small semicircle of admirers watching from the sidelines, every so often breaking into piercing wolf whistles or appreciative applause.

I wasn't naïve enough to think that this was due to an acknowledgement of our skill – Cameron was still a beginner however responsive, not up for fancy footwork of any kind, and I was noticeably clumsier than I had been the last time I'd done this, whether from lack of practice or something more insidious I refused to consider. But we were beautiful and young, and danced with the confidence of professional women who didn't care what we looked like but were supremely contented by the pleasure of each other's company, and that, ironically, more than anything else, was probably what drew the males of the species like moths to twin incandescent flames.

Once I pronounced Cameron ready for prime time, we had our pick of partners, meeting up only occasionally to share a bottle of water or something stronger, and to exchange intelligence on the clueless ones, the rough ones, the ones in desperate need of breath mints or deodorant. The night passed in a blur of men who insinuated that we'd met somewhere before, who let their hands casually cup my ass when they led me into a spin. Every so often, I'd sidestep the proffered hands and invite a woman out onto the floor, enjoying the opportunity to take the lead for a change. But I didn't really care as long as I could keep an eye on Cameron, constantly watching to make sure that she was enjoying herself, not becoming cranky or overtired. After all, I knew who would be taking me home.

* * *

By the time we stumbled back out into the cold, sore but satiated, and far from sober, I was shocked to see that it was 2 am. On the red line, we leaned into each other, partly for balance and partly for warmth, and Cameron's hair tickled my cheek.

Back at the apartment, we opened a last bottle of wine and regarded each other, damp and flushed, smelling of myriad fingers and our own musk. Cameron's eyes were glittering like green glass, her happiness transparent. Grinning, she raised her half-empty goblet in an impromptu toast. "To the chase!"

"To the chase. And to Chase," I added daringly, "may he find consolation in other arms."

"To consolation," she echoed, and hiccupped gently, putting her hand to her mouth.

"You know, he asked me to sleep with him," I said, deliberately looking away. "Just before I left."

"You turned him down," Cameron said confidently, draining the last of her drink and setting the goblet on the coffee table with a thump.

"I… didn't say yes."

"That figures."

I let my gaze flick back to her face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She smirked at me. "Chase is the opposite of Foreman. Always has been."

"Your point being?"

"He's not your type."

I lowered my voice to a husky murmur and leaned in: "What makes you think that Eric was my type?" She swallowed, staring, threatening to retreat, and I reached out to trace the contours of her jaw with a trembling fingertip, then slid a cool hand under her heavy hair, cupping the back of her neck.

Then I waited. And sure enough, a few seconds later Cameron closed her eyes and parted her lips to meet mine.

She tasted like the wine, dark and heady with just a hint of spice, and her lips were still edged with the salt of her exertions. I kissed her softly at first, trying not to startle her, but after only a moment of that she moaned deep in her throat and opened her mouth to me, her tongue tangling with mine. Warm hands clasped the nape of my neck, and she thrust a knee between my thighs, pushing into me insistently.

I pulled the spaghetti strap off one shoulder and broke our kiss to trail my lips over her collarbone. Cameron closed her eyes and arched her back, giving a series of gratifying little gasps, curling her fingers against my skin. I nuzzled her neck, nipping gently at her throat just under her jaw.

She wasn't wearing a bra, just the built-in underwire of the sweat-soaked burgundy cami. She lifted her arms gracefully over her head as I pulled it off, then rested them on my shoulders as I lowered my lips to her generous breast. I kissed the silken skin, swirling my tongue around the nipple, delighting in my power as it puckered into stiffness. Cameron's breath hitched as she fought the urge to twist away, taut and trembling, the aroma of her arousal rising between us.

She led me to her bedroom, and when I buried my face between her thighs at last, she cried out, and I hoped that I hadn't heard the word "love," but I knew that her lips had lingered around my name.

* * *

Chase used to tease her that after orgasm she slept like the dead, and it must be true, because when she finally wakes, warm and boneless and shimmering under her skin, Remy is gone. She feels the faintest flutter of alarm even as she yawns and stretches luxuriously in the still-damp sheets. The silence in the apartment is almost deafening. She pulls a t-shirt over her head and pads into the hall, the living room, the kitchen.

Remy has disappeared without a trace. Her toiletries, her shoes, her laptop, her leather jacket, usually slung carelessly over the back of the chair, all are gone. There is a gaping emptiness in the guest room closet where her tailored shirts and sleeveless blouses used to hang.

_Tipping the Velvet_ has been left on the bedside table, an index card thrust carelessly between the leaves about a third of the way through. Cameron pulls it out, assuming it to be just a bookmark, but finds it to be covered in the other woman's cramped, secretive script. Curious, she brings it closer to her face.

"_Allison –_

_It wasn't a coincidence that we ran into each other at the café that night. House bet me ten thousand dollars that I wouldn't be able to sleep with you – I assume just for his own sick amusement. I thought I'd enjoy the challenge, but by the time it… happened, I'd realized some things about you, and myself._

_Anyway, I decided that I had to tell you. I'm sorry. By the time you find this, I'll be long gone. You won't see me again._

_-Remy"_

Without realizing it, she has sunk down on the bed, biting her lip. She blinks, then watches, feeling strangely detached, as a clear droplet splashes onto the card, blurring the ink.

Stupid, _stupid_, to trust someone whom she had always considered to be either all surface or completely opaque. The woman can't even write a confession without concealing her true motives as much as possible. _What_ has Remy realized? How has it changed her mind about her mission? Although the note itself offers few answers, the more Cameron thinks about the conditions of the bet and the tenuous but genuine connection they've made over the past month, the clearer the picture becomes.

Her first call is to Mass Gen. "Hello, I'm calling about a participant in your Huntington's trial, Remy Hadley? I'm her doctor." After her years of training with House, the lie that would once have been so awkward comes smoothly to her lips.

"Just a moment… Hmm. No, I'm sorry, I have no record of anyone by that name."

"Oh." She thinks quickly. "Well, maybe she's enrolled under another name. Try… Nan King. Or Nancy Astley."

"Who did you say this was?" The receptionist is clearly irritated.

"Never mind," Cameron sighs, realizing how ridiculous she sounds, and hangs up.

Her next call is to House, who picks up on the second ring. "What?"

"It's Cameron," she says, keeping her voice admirably steady.

There's a brief pause. "Checking up on Chase?"

"No need. We're still in touch. He tells me things." She doesn't have to mention that sometimes it's the things Chase doesn't say that tell her the most.

"Then what's the reason for this…" The unfinished sentence strongly suggests that this contact is neither unexpected nor a pleasure. She thinks that the first might just be true.

She doesn't make a conscious decision to circle around the subject, but she finds herself saying, "I heard there was a new woman in your life."

"Yeah, well, she's smarter than you, but less decorative. She does have the same terrible fashion sense…"

"I was talking about you and Dr. Cuddy."

"Are you planning to return and fight a duel for the honor of my hand?" She can hear the smirk, and beneath, the unease that it is meant to smother.

"Very funny. I just wanted to say that I'm happy for you. And that it's good that I left when I did."

"Don't flatter yourself," he grunts.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Ri-i-ight. So what about you? Anyone new in your life?" There is a studied casualness to his tone that can't fool her for a second. After over six years studying the subject, four of them full-time, she knows that she reads House more fluently than anyone.

"Actually, there is," she says. "Or was."

"Do tell," he drawls, affecting a supreme air of boredom.

"Thirteen," she says, and he whistles long and low in simulated surprise.

"There had better be clips going up on YouTube as we speak."

"Cut the crap, House. I know about the bet."

He's startled, she's sure of it, but he rallies magnificently. "Ah. At last we come to the real reason you called. Let me guess – this is the part where you call me an insensitive son of a bitch who wasn't content with corrupting your one true love and-"

"Oh, please," she says. "I know exactly why you sent her here. Thirteen may think that you were just jerking my chain, that you thought it would be a big joke, but I know better." She has him holding his breath on the other end of the line, so she takes a second to swallow, to try to keep her voice from breaking.

"Chase is moving on. You've moved on. Ironic, since I'm the one who left, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about you every day." She deliberately keeps the "you" vague, as it is, even in her most honest moments when she lies awake at night. "I know you'll never admit it, but you were trying to do us both a favor. Thirteen's alone, and her symptoms are obviously more severe. And you wanted me to get over you. Well, congratulations, House. I am."

"I knew you couldn't resist a dying woman," House gibes. "But let me guess - ten years was too long of a commitment for you?"

That dredges up a painful laugh. "I don't think we'll ever know. The thing is, Thirteen never had any intention of playing that part. You should have realized that she's much too proud and independent for you to foist her care off on me or anyone else."

She hangs up, tossing the phone onto the table, and hugs her knees, having faith that, at some point, the shuddering will stop.


End file.
